


Five times Nathan died, and one time he didn't.

by mr-finch (soubriquet)



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Blood, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 14:03:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/812397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soubriquet/pseuds/mr-finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six aftermaths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A short-burst challenge to myself. Warnings/etc may change.

The bomb goes off and Harold reaches out his hand, a blinding white light and blown eardrums turning into the soft noise of a vacuum cleaner in the apartment next door. 

For a moment, he’s still back there; the vacuum’s buzzing is another bomb, the traffic outside is a car swerving, swerving, and Harold is hot and terrified in his sheets, too scared to move and wanting desperately to call, to check it was all just a dream.

He can’t. No one will answer. What he’s terrified will happen already did, two nights ago in a house with tall windows and a wooden floor.

In some ways, he believes, as he lets go of the covers and puts his feet on the ground, he’s glad that he doesn’t dream of what really happened. It’s an ironic gift from his subconscious, too shocked or too guilty to play back the memory of Nathan on his back around the alcohol bottles, on the floor. No, Harold can play that tape back more than enough while he’s still awake.

It would take a special kind of torture to run the reality over and over when his mind lacks defences. In that sense, he should be relieved, but somehow the method of death doesn’t readily bother him; it’s waking up and thinking he can stop it that does.

As Harold checks his phone in that habitual way of the permanently tethered, he doesn’t pull up the GPS that used to track Nathan’s phone. He’s not that sentimental, or that foolish, and besides, eventually it’ll disconnect and there won’t even be the calm blip of signal in the place he left it. Sooner or later, its battery will die, but he won’t look until then.

Maybe he’ll delete the app later today.


	2. Chapter 2

She's just a kid, isn't she? Some college student that Nathan's been taking around IFT's polished exterior while it rebuilds what's left of its reputation - that's all, right? Sure, Nathan's not exactly reticent when it comes to bright, capable young women, but even he knows when to stop. When it really is  _just_  an internship.

She couldn't be meeting him in private restaurants with their own quiet booth, she's in her early twenties and naive for christ's sake; she couldn't be going deeper into the company, near where they keep the records, because why on earth would she want to do that? She couldn't possibly be the reason Nathan is staying later and later at IFT's offices on weeknights, or the reason why Harold doesn't see him unless Nathan invites him in.

Always too busy to speak. Oh, Nathan.

Harold's paranoia will eat him from the inside out one day - he's been told as much many times. One, inconsequential day, all that will be left of Harold Wren will be burnt-out records and the eye of a camera and memories of people who thought they once knew him. He won't fool himself by thinking anything grander of it. 

This woman, though.

Nathan dies five years to the day after the Machine goes online, and Harold spends too long working himself into anxiety over it. Every car he sees is coming for him, every man in a black suit knows everything about him, or everything they ever need to know.

Nobody comes. No one traces the gun that kills him, either. Nobody asks Harold Wren about the Machine. 

Until one day, years later, when an intern who knows everything she ever needs to know breaks into his car and acknowledges him. 

It's a wonder she didn't find him first.


	3. Chapter 3

He's tired. Sleeping on his feet again. He should be anywhere but at his desk, arms folded, head threatening to drop down upon them; he should be somewhere that he can do some good in this world.

It's why he's here, after all. It's why he left for the library rather than IFT this morning, because all the time he spends pretending in his expensive office with the wide, shining windows is time that people die in, people that he might be able to save.

That and well, Harold came by last night, and served to remind him of how absorbed in themselves most people are. Or maybe that's not fair, because Harry had looked so charmed and quietly happy in his own way, ready to make a change for the better in his life. Nathan had lied about telling the truth; it seemed the only option, and besides, even in his self-absorption he didn't want to watch Harold's face fall.

Finally, nine digits on a text message in his hand. Finally, purpose.

He shrugs on his coat, brings up the name and the backstory of someone new on his computer screen, beginning the task of working out  _who are they and why are they going to die?_

This man has military training: he moves like a confident predator, gun held to one side as he looks for the source of the noise Nathan didn't mean to make. They're in a warehouse next to the docks, the victim meant to meet this man here for petty contraband, but has no idea the woman he's been sleeping with is this man's wife. 

Nathan's gun is loaded and cocked because he knows he doesn't stand a chance. The moment this man rounds the corner, he'll see him. 

The door to the warehouse opens without warning and the ex-soldier swivels to face it. He doesn't get off a single shot before Nathan's gun is punching holes in his ribs, in his side, in his chest. A gangland shooting, he thinks, incomprehensibly, as the gun flashes flicker in the boundaries of his vision. Contraband for sale. Bad customers.

Whoever it was who opened the door hits him in the back, and Nathan turns to try and restrain him but the man is ten feet away. There's a gun in his hand too, his eyes open as wide as the hole in Nathan's back, as black as the blood slowly running out of the front of his shirt and down his trousers.

It's the victim. Scared and confused, or maybe Nathan's just projecting, as he coughs and his diaphragm spasms in pain, tries to breathe and feels like he's sinking in water, like the ground beneath his feet is an incessant anchor dragging him down. 

He meets the ground. Just as surely as tiredness was pulling his head towards his hands, he drops to the floor and curls in pain. He can't breathe, he can't breathe, and he doesn't think the man's moved but he doesn't care about that, he cannot breathe.

It wasn't supposed to end like this, with too little time to think about what happens next. Too few days or hours spent with Will, with Harold, with Olivia in life. Too many - he fears, he's terrified - spent running after shadows at the behest of an immortal machine.

He should have smiled more last night. He shouldn't have lied when they said no more secrets. He should have told Harold everything. He never should have hidden, prone in the dark, alone in a warehouse with no one to call and an old hurt bleeding out.

Nathan can't stop his heart from beating so fast, he's too scared, clinging to every thought like he can delay the very last. He can feel himself about to slip out of consciousness, into wherever that leads, and he can't breathe but he can remember asking Harold if he could come into his room. He remembers one summery Boston night where they stayed up late and swapped stories about their lives. He can remember hearing Harold's first name. He can remember passwords. He can remember—


End file.
